


Viand

by Attani



Series: Viand [2]
Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker, Interview With the Vampire (1994)
Genre: Alien Character(s), F/M, Vampires, Viand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:24:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Attani/pseuds/Attani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jacques and Lady P have moved to a new city and a new century.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viand

 

The Night Market reeked of fish and overripe produce.

Jacques stepped from an alleyway into the haze of the naphtha lamps. The evening could mute the colors of the City but not the emotions that erupted before him, a laugh, a dispute, all garish and so alive. The dregs of the City bartered in endless accents, foreign and domestic. Voices encircled him, coarse, often rude, but he had learned long ago to filter out the pointless. He breathed in the algid air, letting it pierce his being with the multi-leveled taste of each invigorating particle.

He gave quick inspection to the offerings of several barrows, feeling a revulsion he did his best to hide. A handsome woman selling shelled walnuts flirted briefly with him. Something in his eyes, a coldness perhaps, changed her mind. Shaken, she looked away and began a conversation with a man behind him. Jacques considered following her home later. He did not mind that she was past her prime; her fear would be just as pleasant as that of a young girl and her blood as nourishing, but he was bored and this simple creature did nothing to abate that condition.

He could walk the streets in search of prey or go home, but Lady Pique would surely be there. Where else would she be? And he wasn’t in the mood to spar with her tonight.

Disruptive emotions could only go so far these days in alleviating his needs. Every cell in his body cried out for the coppery sweet perfume that coursed through the crowd.

Jacques was tempted to linger, to allow his palate to savor the variety of human scent that surrounded him, yet to tarry could bring its own problems, someone noticing the paleness of his face, the ice of his skin, even his lack of odor might be detected. All of which was complicated by the fact that as the hunger grew, his ability to control his nature lessened.

"Sending me out alone at this hour!" The thought seeped through the air as blood through linen. It held a note of the feminine, with a lilt of rancor playing upon the words.

He followed the sharpness within the words, weaving his way through the market, past the stinking cabbage, towards the frustration, towards the bitterness he longed to inhale like an exotic drug.

"Constance, get my supper. Constance, get my slippers. Constance, stoke that fire, can’t you see I’m cold?"

Jacques salivated as he pursued this Constance, the rankness of the market withdrawing as the acerbic contemplation teased his senses, slithering into his brain, releasing the chemicals of passion, a hardening with a longing for the wet release.

But he could not take her here in public; Lady Pique would be infuriated which, of course, would mean much sarcasm and asperity for days, perhaps even weeks. No, Jacques must be patient and subtle in his machinations.

He rounded a vegetable stall and there she stood, her fury held in check by societal norms and a worn velvet coat as her gloved fingers inspected a basket of mature red plums. One of the plums burst open, bleeding onto the cream of the leather.

Jacques remained still. He did not wish to alarm her for fear that she might escape his intention. He did not need to worry on that account because, before she even raised her eyes, a well-groomed and corpulent clergyman advanced upon her. Noticing the juice on her glove, she began to lick her fingers.

"Miss Castell, such a charming sight. Shopping for your uncle I see," said the clergyman. "How is he this eve?"

"My uncle complains of his foot, his heart, his digestion. It keeps him from doing anything but what he truly desires." Constance Castell was not in the mood for pleasantries.

"You do him an injustice, girl. The Lord God delivered you unto him so that you may be spared a life on the streets."

Constance looked up from her glove.

"The Lord God killed my parents. He allowed the lawyers to steal our money. Lawyers my uncle recommended," Constance advanced upon him. "God does not reside in Heaven but in Hell. You and my uncle are his emissaries!"

"This acrimony is unbecoming. You are honored to serve God and your Uncle. Beg their forgiveness!"

Something stirred within Jacques. But she needed no aid.

"I am no dog. You serve money," said Constance. "You serve your own comfort."

"I understand that your life is not what it once was. I will pray for your soul," he called out as Constance stalked off.

"Pray for my mercy," she replied.

He did not hear her words but Jacques did. She left the market, disappearing into the mist.

Jacques pursued Constance, marking the click of her heels against the pavement, the venom of her thoughts. It seemed odd to him that she did not employ a cab since they had walked a good distance. Eventually she climbed the stairs to her residence and slipped inside. He waited, watched until a gas lamp dimly lit the attic.

The curtain fluttered as Constance’s stern, pale face peered out at Jacques. He lifted his hat.

#

Lady Pique met Jacques in the foyer as he entered their house.

“A woman,” she said. There was a slight shimmer in the air surrounding her, an unusual bending of light. “You have met with a woman.”

She stood as though she had been waiting for him, wearing a sardonic smile and a simple celadon dress. She wore her hair in a low coiffure. She had no scent. Her annoyance colored her voice but not her face.

Jacques removed his coat and leather gloves, tossing the latter onto a small table under the mirror. He stood there for a moment, looking down at one of the gloves as though the sheath offered him something other than protection for his skin.

“Why not? I speak to you every night. Ah, but I forget myself, you are not a woman," he said turning to face her. "You are a construct created by engineers back on our world, arranged to appear as a woman. I don’t mind being the only one who sees you, it’s listening to you that I find offensive.”

He turned to the mirror and began a cursory inspection of his clothes, brushing the lapel of his jacket lightly with his hand, pulling down the hem of his waistcoat. His hair was a mass of dark waves which he tried to smooth back with his hand.

“You hurt my feelings, Jacques,” Lady Pique put a wifely hand upon his arm.

He stopped as though he would turn to her but, instead, continued with his primping.

“You have none to hurt,” he said.

Lady Pique was not so easy to rebuff. “Everything about me is based on a living being, a woman. Part of me is that woman," she said as she touched his neck. "But you misdirect the conversation.”

Jacques caught her hand in his. “Is that what this is? A conversation?” he said. “I thought it was an interrogation.”

He strode into the living room going straight to the fire. He stood staring down at it and, for a brief moment in the light of the fire, his face appeared hideous.

"What is the point," he said.

Ignoring his question, Lady Pique took a deep breath and said, “You return empty-handed.”

“Everything smelled off.” His voice held resignation.

“Isn’t that the purpose of the Night Market?” said Lady Pique. “But you weren’t there looking for that kind of sustenance.”

Trying not to think of Constance he said, “Fine, everyone smelled off. Satisfied?”

“Not quite everyone,” said Lady Pique.

“If you're so curious, why don’t you come with me next time and see for yourself? Why remain here or wherever you exist when I’m not around?”

“Perhaps I shall,” she said. “I saw no reason to tonight. I do not always wish to visit the unsavory venues you haunt.”

As if she had anything better to do, he thought. “Then why question me? Is pestering your primary function?" said Jacques as he abruptly turned and left the room.

“I wasn’t aware that I pestered.” Lady Pique smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her gown. “Remember Paris, Jacques.”

“Paris was a hundred years ago. I’ve learned so much since then.”

“Who is she?”

“Join me next time at one of my unsavory venues,” he tossed back as he climbed the stairs. “And find out for yourself, m' lady”.

I will, Lady Pique thought as she watched him leave.

#

The following night they stood under the diffused glow of a street-lamp opposite the townhouse.

“Are we to wait out here all night?” said Lady Pique, her hands concealed in a fox-fur muff. She enjoyed the trappings of feminine fashion and was very much aware that Jacques thought such things frivolous. Jacques afforded it a desultory glance as his eyes scanned the street. It was difficult to appear nonchalant when one was clearly lurking.

“Possibly,” he replied.

“You could call to her, lure her mind,” said Lady Pique, her voice was as languid as her eyes.

“Or I could keep you out here for hours on end simply out of spite.” The sharpness of his voice betrayed his impatience with her.

Amused by Jacques’ temper, Lady Pique lowered her lids as a smirk crossed her lips and her hand teasingly traced down her neck to her chest. “I only exist to help you."

“You entice me with your perception yet torture me with innuendo. How, pray tell, does that help me?”

“Without reflection one does not grow.”

“And the innuendo?”

“Simply guiding you to the mirror.”

“What is the point, Lady?” Jacques said as he turned to her. “I have been discarded to this world, shunned by my own kind for eternity. Why trouble yourself if not to mock my very existence?” More frustration erupted from his words than he had intended. He'd always thought of himself as the shadow but now he knew that he merely danced within the shadow, its puppet. He was unsure of Lady Pique’s role in this dance. Sometimes it felt as if she were a partner, sometimes an adversary but she was always near, almost a part of him.

Lady Pique opened her mouth to respond but instead said, “Look, a tidbit emerges. Would that be she? Should I say hello?”

“It would indeed,” said Jacques as he tugged at his cuffs. “Since you are less than a ghost to her, I beg that you do not distract me. I would rather her not think me insane.”

Jacques approached Constance and tipped his hat.

“Sir, are we acquainted,” asked Constance. The man was familiar but she could not place him.

“Mademoiselle Constance, a lovely day, is it not,” said Jacques.

“Lovely? I think you are deluded, good sir. It is night and the weather dreary.”

“All I see is you.”

Nearby, Lady Pique groaned.

“Again you are out, alone, traversing the darkened eve,” said Jacques.

“My uncle requests that I attend Church. I am already late. What do you mean, again? From whence do I know you, sir?” Distrustful, she retreated a step. She thirsted for male attention but it had been so long since she’d experienced it that she could not help but be suspicious.

“I shall accompany you through this Cimmerian shade to your desired destination and keep you safe from monsters.”

Lady Pique’s face crinkled, her laughter not quite silent.

Constance thought she heard someone and started to look around but then stopped as Jacques’ eyes held her attention. “What shall I call you, sir, for I fear I cannot recall your name?”

“Monsieur Jacques de Dagan at your service, mademoiselle.”

“What an unusual surname.” Though unsure of the stranger, Constance was intrigued.

He took a step closer to her. “May I offer my arm?”

“Adroit, Jacques,” said Lady Pique, though he insisted on ignoring her.

“Thank you, Monsieur de Dagan.”

“You may call me Jacques.”

“Monsieur Jacques,” Constance hesitated then took his arm. “The church is not far from here.” Though separated by layers of cloth, her skin tingled as she came in contact with him, a delightful tingle, one that created vibrations of excitement in her innermost being. She felt irreverent as she walked beside him.

Lady Pique followed in the wake of Constance’s new-found power.

#

Outside the church Jacques and Constance stopped. The liturgy was under way, the congregation chanting out their responses.

“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis,” sang out the cantor.

“Will you join me inside,” asked Constance.

“Have mercy on us!”

“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.”

“You’re inviting me in?” said Jacques.

“Have mercy on us!”

“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem.”

“Of course.”

“Have mercy on us!”

Jacques smiled.

Angels glared from the heavy oaken doors as Lady Pique stood at the top of the steps outside the church waiting for them. “Won’t you cry out for mercy, Jacques?”

Then, at his side whispering in his ear, “But you are the one they need mercy from, am I not correct?”

Jacques turned to Constance, “Do you believe?”

She raised an eyebrow. “In God? I do not have the luxury of such pretense.”

Jacques studied her for a moment. There was something about her manner, her intensity that pulled him towards her.

“Then come with me.” He took both her hands in his.

“I will be missed.”

"You are already late."

He placed his hand under her chin lifting her face to his then gently outlined her lips with his fingertip. “What’s the worst that could happen? Would your uncle become angry?" he asked as he tilted his head. "Would he strike you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Where shall we go?”

“You have no fear?”

What was there to fear at this point? Any punishment was worth destroying the tedium of her life. She leaned in so close to Jacques that her lips almost touched his ear. “It is time the world feared me,” she whispered.

Their laughter was drowned out as the faithful and Lady Pique, arms outstretched in front of the church doors, cried out, “Have mercy on us.”

#

Approaching the Theater District, they smiled as they met the glances of other couples.

"The fog can be your friend, so too the dark. You must use your sense of smell, hone your ability to hear a breath catch, a cloak stir, a thought arise for they bring extra dimension to a hunter's skill." His arm embraced her shoulders, keeping her close to him as they watched.

Constance said, "I don’t understand. You can do this?"

"And more. I can sense anger as a flower senses sunlight."

"I would be like you."

He regarded her but her eyes were busy judging prey.

"There, those two," she said as she pointed to a young couple. "There is something wrong."

"We shall trail them while observing with all our senses."

A flush arose in Constance’s face. No one had ever taught her to do anything that did not serve their own needs. Now she felt as though her needs were about to be met.

Standing outside of the couple's house Jacques closed his eyes and said, "They are arguing. Release all thought and emotion, allow their anger to wash over you, into you. Now, breathe deep. What do you smell?"

A strong sweetness mingled with deep warmth filled her mind. "Jasmine. Candles. Henry."

"Focus. What can you see?"

"Faces, red from anger. They are close to violence." She bit her lower lip then opened her mouth, releasing her breath in a spasm of delight.

"Or sex." His voice was like warm liquid slipping down her throat. She heard promises of pleasure in its timbre.

"Sex," said Constance, turning the word over as though it were an unusual paperweight.

The door slammed as the man walked with deliberation away from the house.

"But not tonight," said Jacques.

#

Henry’s indignation filled him until, at last, he slowed his stride and took notice of his whereabouts. He hadn't meant to walk so far, had actually intended to visit the pub down the street so that he could gain some bitter perspective on life. He must have passed it long ago for he did not immediately recognize the neighborhood. Moisture beaded on his cheek and though not normally given to imaginative fears, he sensed a presence behind him.

There. Footsteps pursuing his own. No, two pair of footsteps. His heartbeat began to quicken as he considered his options. He wasn't the bravest of men but he did not like uncertainty. He turned to face his terror. He was alone.

Back at the house his wife’s anger had turned to tears. Hearts are always broken, trampled on, but hearts mend, she thought as she unpinned her hair and let it flow over her shoulders. She unbuttoned her blouse. Thoughts swam through her mind then back out again as she undressed, leisurely, almost entranced. She went over to a window that looked down upon the street and gently brushed aside the curtain with her hand. She leaned forward slightly and her breast pressed against the cool glass. She hoped to see her husband but he was not there. As she turned back to the room, she saw a handsome man standing next to her bed. The kind of man one sees in dreams, the sort where one is not fully asleep, a bit feverish and damp. A woman emerged from behind him.

A dog howled in the distance as Henry approached the steps to his front door. He turned the doorknob knowing, with shame, that he must have forgotten to lock it as he left earlier. Once inside, he took off his hat and coat then climbed the stairs.

"Vera?" he called out as he entered the bedroom.

He gasped and reached out for a non-existent wall, falling to his hands and knees. His wife lay on the floor, her eyes half closed, throat slashed, face and breasts defiled with blood. Smears of blood and saliva had mixed on her stomach like paint on a palette, all the way down past her pubic hair. Liquid trickled between her thighs.

#

"Well, that was amusing," said Jacques.

Sucking on her fingers Constance said, "I want the man."

Maybe it was his imagination but Constance seemed more attractive since the kill, certainly the swell of her breasts had increased.

"The flavor remains fresh in your mind longer if you leave suffering in your wake."

"I want to strip him bare and lick every bit of him."

"He's not in a position to appreciate that right now."

She took Jacques' hand and, raising it to her lips, sucked on his index finger then slowly circled her tongue around it while looking into his eyes.

Jacques snatched his hand back. "Enough."

"You don't appreciate it either."

Jacques walked away from her. He sensed something. Anger, desire? She looked at Jacques with hunger in her eyes but it did not stop with him, she had tasted every part of the woman, inside and out. He felt conflicted and that sat sour in his stomach. Constance seemed to grow more lovely and more irrational with each glance. Some elusive connection held them together yet a piece of him wanted to shove her away.

“How will you explain your absence from church to your uncle?"

A playful smile crossed Constance’s lips. "I prayed at the altar of sin."

The tinkling laughter of Lady Pique reached Jacques' ears.

"Perhaps not," he said. "Tell him that you arrived late. No one noticed you."

"My prayers will soon be answered."

"Let's keep that to ourselves for now, shall we?"

Lady Pique whispered in Jacques' ear, "Now you know what it's like conversing with an arrogant lunatic."

Jacques turned on Lady Pique. "I am not a lunatic!"

Constance watched with curiosity.

"I have surpassed these beings, even my own kind," he said.

"If you say so, dear Jacques."

Jacques grabbed Constance by the arm to hurry her back home but she pulled away from him and said, "Who is that woman?"

"You see her?"

"She's right there."

Jacques turned to see Lady Pique watching them.

#

The house was unlit except for the light coming from a dying fire. Constance walked through the foyer unfastening her coat. A specter from the dark arose before her.

"Where have you been," cried her uncle as he turned on the lamp. "I said where have you been?" He wasn't much taller than his niece and his jowls vibrated when he spoke.

Tiny rivulets of self-doubt invaded Constance. "At church, Uncle."

"The service ended over an hour ago. Where have you been?"

She turned away from him moving towards the stairs. "Walking."

"You turn your back on me?" He took up his cane and slammed it against her back.

Constance screamed as she fell to the floor. Her uncle stood above her as he raised the cane once more. She rolled away in time to avoid being hit again but her uncle had used so much force that when the cane hit the floor it broke and he toppled over. Constance ran through the hallway and into the kitchen. Her uncle got up and followed her, brandishing the remainder of his cane.

"Where are you?" he shouted. He stood for a moment, silhouetted in the kitchen's doorway, then took three steps into the room.

"Here," said Constance. As he turned towards her voice, she heaved a large knife deep into his throat.

Garbled sounds bubbled from his mouth as Constance watched him fall. Before he died she sunk the knife into his gut and disemboweled him, then inspected his entrails as a child might.

#

"That's right, Jacques," said Lady P. "Like you, that woman is an exile. She is your future."

"I'm not like her. I remember my life, our history, our world."

"Constance has been here a very long time, Jacques, much longer than you."

"But her parents? She said-"

"You only know what she allowed you to hear. She may even believe it herself. But somewhere inside she knows and that knowledge would be enough to drive a creature insane." She moved closer to Jacques. “And I think, somewhere inside, you must have known what she is as well. Why else would you attempt to train her? Humans cannot be trained.”

#

Something beautiful and monstrous crossed the street to enter the church that night. Some people saw an angel, some a demon, still others saw only a shadow. It was, however, a creature so foreign to them that they could not perceive its true image, a being with a mind so fragmented that it could never be consoled.

Covered in her uncle’s blood, entrails around her neck, Constance walked into the church, the knife that had released her uncle still in her hand. It was difficult for her to put her thoughts in order. She felt a whirlwind of pain and sorrow raging inside of her. She could not remember a time when she had not been lonely, not felt solitude amongst these creatures of flesh and ice. Early on she had craved companionship, warmth, an honest smile but they did not exist. Only the cold lived here with its harsh, cruel sneer for the broken and the isolated. Eventually the cold infected her soul and her thoughts became shallow, heartless breaths of desperation, contorted desires, a marital vow of madness.

A group of men in front of a pub watched Constance make her way from the street into the church. One of the rougher looking men held a bottle. More men arrived and dubious looks were exchanged, then the men followed her into the church. Knives appeared in the hands of some of the men as they advanced upon Constance. She one man’s neck as he tried to stab her and sunk her knife into another’s. The rough looking man swung his bottle at her head but she ducked, then shoved him into a side altar where several votive candles burned, knocking the altar over and dousing the altar cloth with spilt paraffin and whiskey. The man’s clothes caught fire and he began to scream as he rolled onto to some fallen hymnals.

Jacques and Lady Pique arrived in time to see the first flames reflected through the stained glass windows. Lady Pique looked at Jacques with apprehension but he no longer took notice of her. This creature was his. She was of his kind no matter what her state of being and she did not deserve this. Jacques ran towards her as the men dragged her down onto the floor. He pulled each of them away from her, ripping their throats and tossing them aside.

Jacques knelt down and held Constance in his arms but she lay still, her eyes staring and her blood pooled beneath her. He looked towards Lady Pique imploringly but the church was burning out of control as she grabbed his arm and pulled him away, into the street. He broke away from her, taking a step back towards the church but stopped as it made a deep groan like an angel cast out.

"So, once again you are the leper of society," said Lady Pique. “Did Paris teach you nothing?”

“Always so melodramatic. London is large enough to disappear in.” He roughly wiped his face with his sleeve and turned away from the church.

Without looking back, Jacques and Lady Pique slunk away into the shadows of the city.  
  
---  
  
**Author's Note:**

> I've kind of gotten away from the direction I was intending to go in. Shifting away from the famous works and actual vampires even though it may take some thought to realize what is actually the true nature of Jacques.  
> (any pointers on how to write a fight scene would be welcome)


End file.
